


Liberty She Pirouette

by jld_az



Series: And We Are Merely Players (Book One) [3]
Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: Angst and Feels, Blood and Injury, Canon Parallel w/ Copious Artistic License, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23731828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az
Summary: Patternfall has come. Aunna is called to war.Title from 'Solsbury Hill' by Peter Gabriel
Relationships: Martin / Ariaunna (OFC)
Series: And We Are Merely Players (Book One) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709362
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

It was cold, and the sky outside was a milky grey that threatened rain.

Aunna stared at it through a slit between the curtains, and listened to the pending sunrise: A timid sparrow, a distant crow, a far-off tractor; all accompanied by the low, steady breathing behind her.

She glanced at the clock and frowned, because it wasn't what had woken her. She detangled herself from her sleeping lover, and sat up, taking a moment to shake out her long dark hair with her fingers. She reached over and cancelled the alarm before stepping out of bed, then pulled on a pair of faded jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. She tied her hair away from her face as she left the room, and descended the stairs at a trot into the main foyer.

Picking up her boots, Aunna puffed out a breath through tight lips as a familiar tingle built up at the base of her skull. Stomping into the second boot, she glanced up the stairs before grabbing her coat, and stepping out into the brisk Kentucky morning, trudging across the hardened ground to the barn.

She paused briefly in the blast of warm air that greeted her when she stepped inside, heavy with the scent of horses and hay, earthy manure and the tang of ammonia. Whinnies went up when she turned on the light; thick straw rustled as Sagr and George moved to greet her, necks stretching eagerly over stall doors. She straightened the golden bay’s forelock on the way by, and palmed the chestnut’s nose. Then she crossed to the loft ladder, and reached for the highest rung before beginning her ascent.

“Took you long enough,” she chivvied, finally addressing the air. “Way to leave me hangin’, T.”

“Been a little busy,” Tristan replied.

“With stuff you’re actually ready to tell me about?” Aunna stepped onto the landing. “Or is this going to be another bullshit social call?”

Her brother made a sound of resignation, and his illusion assumed a lean against something behind him, arms folding across his chest. He looked tired, now that she took a moment to observe him. Worn out, strung thin.

“Jesus.” She shook her head, and made her way to the haystacks. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Few days, maybe,” he replied. “It’s hard to say. Things are .. complicated.”

“Oh, so this _isn’t_ a bullshit social call,” she said, pulling a few thick flakes from the open bale, and dropping them to the horses below. “Good. I was starting to get a complex.”

“Sorry,” he offered, and sounded genuine. “I really wanted to keep you out of it, but we may be past that now.”

Aunna jolted a little. “That sounded vaguely ominous.”

“Eric’s dead.”

This time, she reeled. “Fuck me! Bombshell much?”

“Wait for it,” he advised on a sigh. Then, “Corwin’s back.”

“Did he kill Eric _this_ time?” she blurted.

Tristan shook his head. “We think the Jewel killed him, trying to turn back the incursion from Garnath.”

“The whatnow?”

“That ‘mysterious Path’ I mentioned turned out to be an access point from Shadow.” Tristan massaged his forehead with his empty hand. “We were seeing where it led when you called me.”

He sagged heavier against the wall behind him, bringing more of his surroundings into focus. By the look of it he was calling from the War Room in Amber Castle, if the bookshelf at his shoulder was any indication.

“… _And?”_ she prodded.

“We found an army, camped two days out.”

“Corwin’s?”

Her brother made a bemused sound, and said, “At one point, yes. But then he gave it to Bleys, right before Eric’s coronation.”

There was a pause as she considered that, then she couldn’t help the wry guffaw that burst out of her.

“Bleys stood him up,” she cackled, darkly. Jesus fuck, their family was a goddamned tragedy. “And he’s been camped out there, all this time.”

Tristan nodded. “And supplementing as he waited, apparently. The majority of his forces weren’t human. We think he was using the Black Road as a recruitment tool.”

Aunna cocked her head. “You’re saying _Bleys_ was behind the thing in Garnath?”

“Maybe tangentially,” Tristan said. “We're pretty sure the Path was created when the Primal Pattern was damaged. Probably by Brand, to give his brother’s army a way into Amber.”

Of all the information in that statement, it was one word - Brand - that caused her to twitch. Her eyes flicked toward the house on the hill, mind jumping to the man she’d left sleeping there, and the memory of him bleeding out on her bathroom floor. She banished it quickly lest her brother catch on, and asked,

“Wait, so Bleys is back, too?” 

“No,” her brother scowled. “He reportedly fell on Kolvir, but nobody’s found a body. The other two are MiA.”

“And the King is dead,” Aunna sighed, rounding back to the top of the conversation. She took up a mirroring position against a crossbeam, folding her hands in the small of her back. “When’s the funeral?”

“We’re not having one. They think it’ll cause further panic in the population.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Dad, Caine, Gérard,” Tristan supplied. “Basically, everyone still around has decided to stow their egos for the time being, and run as a collective until we can resolve the issue with the Pattern.”

“...fuck.”

“Yeah, I think things are officially in the shit, Aunna,” Tristan admitted. “We’ve been trying to piece together what research Fiona left behind at Sage Hall, but Grandfather believes-”

Her whole body seized.

“What the fuck, Tristan!” She lurched upright again. “‘Complicated’ and 'In the shit' is putting it lightly if _Oberon's_ come out of fucking hiding!”

Her brother visibly flinched at her sudden fury, and quickly added, “He wasn't hi-”

Aunna sputtered a Malwainese curse, then advanced on his illusion; reached into the contact, and hauled him physically through it by the straps of his tac vest. His shoulders hit the crossbeam she’d just vacated with a startled,

“Shit!”

“Spill!” she shouted, glaring up the half-foot-plus between them.

Tristan growled, grabbed her wrists, and went for a leg sweep. She hopped over it, but gave him the leverage he needed to pry her grip loose, and spin her around; her back to his chest, arms folded and pinned in front of her. He dodged her attempt to crush his instep, but when her head thudded into his breastbone hard enough to wind him, he let go, and she stumbled to her knees, hand on her crown, ears ringing from the blow.

Tristan gasped for air, clutching at his sternum as he stepped around her and out of harm's way, his other arm extended toward her in a staying motion.

“What the .. fuck, sis,” he heaved. Aunna rocked back on her haunches, and gave him a bleary-eyed glare.

“Why hasn’t anyone contacted me?” she hissed back. “I’ve been out here ‘studying’, and haven’t heard fuckall!”

His eyes narrowed. “Because _you left the service_ ,” he eventually bit out, incredulous. “Re _member_?”

“Fuck you,” she spat, then wiped blood from her mouth with the back of a loose fist. “You know what I mean.”

“Hey!” Tristan finally snapped, bristling to his full height and pointing at her. “You made it pretty clear to everyone that you were _done_ after Ghenesh-”

“Don't.” Aunna rose like a black dawn, trembling with barely restrained rage. “Just .. Don't.”

The siblings stared at each other in volatile silence. Then Tristan pursed his lips, and flipped open the end of the slim black case clipped to his belt; stepped over to pick up her trump from the floor, and slipped it inside.

“Listen,” he said, tempering his tone. His finger flipped up the top of the case then, and he thumbed a different card out. “Next time you want me to drop by for a visit, just ask. Don't go jerking me around, alright?”

“Stop holding out on me, and get some fucking sleep,” she replied tartly.

He stared at her for a beat, then sighed and nodded before disappearing in a prismatic flash.

* * *

The strange thing was, she couldn't understand why she was _so angry_. Aside from the names of those directly involved, Tristan hadn't told her anything that she hadn't already suspected based on previous conversations. All he'd done this time 'round was grease the machine, and set it into motion.

Like an itch below the skin, the feeling that something was coming - something dangerous, on a scale bigger than she could comprehend - had been nagging her for _months_ , and she couldn't scratch it.

Over the days that followed Tristan's call, the impulse to do something, to be someplace else, worsened; and the urge to act on it made her restless. Irritable. Absent.

“Where are you?”

Aunna blinked, her brows knitting into a frown as she regarded the profile of the man to her right. “What?”

“I said, 'Where are you'.”

His face reflected the cinema screen; flashed surreal shades of grey and crimson gold…

But he wasn't looking at her. He was lighting a cigarette.

“Are you going to Bogart that?” she asked in return.

Martin rolled it between his fingers, focused on the ember as though considering his options before taking a drag and passing it over. She accepted with murmured thanks, and he watched her inhale without prodding for an answer. Aunna let the smoke roll around her mouth a moment before blowing it out.

“I suppose 'The Carmike Ten' is an insufficient answer.” She held the cigarette where his fingers could scissor over it again. He gave her a wry smirk, and returned his attention to the screen.

Silence descended, and she felt it again: the itch. It was behind her eyeballs this time. She closed them, and pinched the bridge of her nose.

_I drove out there with the remains of three human beings… well, two human beings and Wilma-_

Martin nudged his elbow against hers on the armrest. Aunna huffed, dropped her hand, and scanned the theatre. Except for one other couple busily making out in the back row, and a man that looked to be napping up front, they were alone. She settled her attention on the screen, but came to realize she had no interest in what was going on. She leaned into his shoulder.

“Is this as good as it gets?” she asked.

“Define 'this',” he replied. Casual. Low tone.

And a lead weight hit bottom in her gut. She was suddenly there, in the moment, and heavy from it.

In the front row, the sleeping man snored awake and jerked upright. Martin stubbed his cigarette out on the sole of his boot, and pocketed the remains as he stood. He offered her a hand. The pair exited through the back door into the glare of a late autumn afternoon.

“Hungry?” he asked, slipping into his jacket.

She pulled the sunglasses down from her hair, and slid them on. “I could eat.”

The traffic on Man O' War Boulevard was buzzing. She could feel the hum through the pavement under her feet. Hands in his pockets, Martin headed for the parking lot. Her sunglasses tinted everything tawny yellow. His hair looked like rust. Her green jeep was teal. She tossed him the keys. He unlocked the passenger door, and tossed them back.

Out on the road, Aunna started to come back to sorts. It was the movement, the passage of miles beneath the tires, the sense of going someplace. Martin mussed with the radio, and jokingly lamented the lack of non-Country selection in a way that marked it as a familiar complaint. Richmond Road became Main Street. She hooked a left onto South Upper, and killed the engine in front of McCarthy's. She nudged the meter on the way by, and the timer restarted.

“Cheat,” he chided. She faced him, walking in reverse toward the door, and puckered her lips at the air.

With pints of Guinness and a basket of waffle-cut fries between them, they sat in a cosy booth towards the back, and discussed the finer points of the day's horror genre, the horror that was most of the current radio hits, and listened to the radio call of Landaluce winning the Starlet Stakes from Hollywood Park. It was close to an hour before they fell into a lull. But eventually:

“So what did you mean,” she asked, picking through the remains of the fries before sliding the basket away, and brushing off her hands.

Martin lit a cigarette, depositing the pack on the table between them as he regarded her with a mouthful of smoke. After a beat, he blew it out in a rough stream; gestured to the waitress for two more pints.

“Does that mean you're willing to answer my question now, too?”

She snatched up the pack and shook one out. “I hate this fucking game.”

“You started it,” he countered, draping an arm over the back of his seat.

There was silence as the waitress delivered their drinks, took the empties away. When the girl had gone, Aunna tapped her nails on the table and said,

“Fine. Ask me.”

“Where are you?”

“I don't know.” It wasn't a cagey reply; it was the truth. He recognized that. Had known her long enough to. “What did you mean by 'Define this'?”

“I wasn't sure if you were talking about the movie,” he replied.

“Because I was wandering?”

“Because you were _vibrating_ ,” he emphasized. “Fuck, A. I've met _junkies_ less twitchy than you've been lately.”

She wanted to argue with the observation. Couldn't though. And it was so like him now, to call her out about it.

He took a drink. “It's the inertia,” he resumed as he set the glass down, blue eyes focused on her green. “Right?”

“Stop,” Aunna replied. “It freaks me out when you do that shit.”

“The problem is,” he continued, as though she hadn't spoken, “I'm not sure where it started. Which is why I said: Define 'this'.”

She gave him a shrewd look, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. “You're thinking I want to take a break,” she finally said.

“Or you're fishing for a proposal-” 

She snorted derisively and sat up again. “Fuck _that_ noise.”

“-and thank you for demonstrating _exactly_ why I discarded that thought,” Martin chuckled. Then he shrugged. “For what it's worth, I'm not inclined to go that route either. But it also doesn't seem wise to dig in for a long haul if one of us is feeling cramped. So maybe we _should_ split up, before this goes sour.”

Aunna lifted her pint and took a long swallow, using the time to really consider what he was saying. She was well aware of the fact that, since leaving her family’s home at seventeen, she'd never lived so long in one place as she has in Keene; nor willingly shared that space with another person like she has with him. And maybe that's all this feeling was — this pent-up need to _go-go-go, do-do-do_. Maybe they'd had their run, and now some previously undiscovered part of her had been keyed to just .. move on.

“It's only fitting, I suppose,” she reasoned. “No sense hanging around for the 'wait and see', is there. Especially considering what we are.”

And by his fleeting glance, that last bit must've caught him off guard — like he was surprised she might want to revisit this arrangement in the future. But then he ground out his cigarette, and a self-deprecating smile curled one corner of his lips.

“So with all that on the table, my answer is 'Yes, right now, this is as good as it gets'.” He met her gaze. “Savvy?”

There was a small pause, then,

“Yeah,” she nodded, slowly. “Ok.”

And it was.

Even when he took her to bed and took her apart; conducted concerts with his fingers between her legs and his lyrical tongue in her ear; nipped bruises into her skin, and curled blunt nails over the apex of her hips; drove into her with all the heat of that first night, now suffused in the knowledge of five years spent learning each-other like this…

Even when she shuddered and moaned and ground out his name, and he was curled over her and brushing back her hair to stare at her in wonder, the colour rising high in his cheeks when he cursed out his own release at the sounds she made…

Even when he climbed out of bed at two in the morning, pulled on his clothes, and tossed the last of his essentials into a duffle bag.

“Heading back to Cali, then?” she asked.

“Eventually.” He sat on the edge of the bed beside her, and tugged on his boots. “Thought I'd go wander Shadow a bit, visit some places I haven't seen for a while.”

Aunna stretched languidly and sat up, not bothering to cover herself as she ran a hand up under his shirt, tracing the length of scar along his ribs.

“Watch your back out there,” she murmured into his shoulder, with sincerity.

He laughed lowly, turning; reached out to fist a hand into her bedraggled hair. He pulled her forehead to his. “Try not to get lost in there.”

And there was no _Goodbye_. Just an implied _See you later_ , sealed with a kiss.

* * *

“I heard about Eric.” Aunna drummed the fingers of her free hand across the lip of her mug, the hot contents steaming her palm. “I'm sorry.”

“Thank you,” the illusion projected by the card in her other hand replied. Gérard sat back in a chair. “You've spoken to your father?”

She shook her head. “Tristan told me.”

December had come to the Bluegrass, bringing with it the first real frost of winter, and a renewed urge to follow up on events in Amber. Aunna had dug her trumps out of hiding sometime before sunrise; spent the better part of the morning going through them and a pot of coffee, deciding which of her relatives would be most likely to give her the straight story.

“Yes, it is that bad,” Gérard said, picking up on her thought.

“I got that impression when I heard Oberon was back.”

“Did your brother happen to mention why?”

“Not in detail,” she admitted. “Hence the call. I'd like to know what I'm heading into.”

Her uncle's smile was fleeting. “He's going to attempt to repair the Pattern.”

Aunna thought about that for a long moment. She had a strong notion what such an undertaking was likely to cost and, while she couldn't stir up much in the way of concern for her grandfather's well being, it brought that hypervigilant feeling she'd been harbouring into sharp relief; the fact that Amber would be ripe for the picking while he did it didn't set well with her. They'd need a distraction.

“Counter strike?” she asked simply.

“Staging as we speak.” After a pause, Gérard added, “It's good to know we can expect you.”

His words held a questioning lilt. Aunna looked past the illusion, through the wall behind it.

“How long do I have?”

He didn't hesitate. “We deploy in three days.”

Which gave her a little under three weeks. It was plenty of time.

“The way in will be difficult,” her uncle continued. “Most of the common Paths have been corrupted.”

“By the Black Road,” Aunna nodded, refocused on him. “Yes, I know.”

“It would be best to call someone. For the time being, trumps appear to be working fine.”

Aunna finished her coffee and stood. “Thank you, Uncle Gérard,” she said.

The call disconnected. Tossing the card onto the pile, she chewed the inside of her cheek, teeth bared in thought.

Then she sighed and, her mind made up, picked up the sword that'd been laid out on the table beside her trumps; the shining bronze sabre cold comfort in her grip, thrumming like a heartbeat.

* * *

It snowed on New Year's, bitter cold. Came down in large flakes that lay a blanket over the landscape eight inches thick in less than an hour. Aunna waited it out in the confines of the barn; the six-stall unit quiet but for the rustle of straw, and the crunching of grain.

Rag in hand, she dipped once again into the can on the bench beside her, then rubbed small circles over the object in her other hand. The wall at her back jumped three times, rapidly; the noise ringing out like shots. She admonished in Deigan, not bothering to look up until she felt a warm puff of air on the top of her head. The golden bay eyed her through the bars of his stall front, and then turned his head with alert ears toward the window, nostrils blown out. She spoke to him in low tones until he walked away, then sighed, and resumed her task.

“I believe he would rather be outdoors.”

The crisp contralto came from her left, farther down the aisle. She did not startle, but her hand tensed around the item she was holding.

“Sagr forgets sometimes that he hates snow,” she replied. “He confuses it for sand until he steps in it.”

Her visitor gave a low hum in response, but was otherwise quiet. Aunna finished buffing out the plate in her hand, and added it to the pile of armour on her right.

“So,” the woman finally hedged, “will we stand here in silence all night, or-”

“What do you want, Dara?”

“Me?” The word was cast-offish, “I want what I was promised: A husband of merit, and a kingdom to rule.” Her boots clacked against the stone floor with metronome precision as she closed the distance. “But since the prince I was promised has seen fit to part ways with sanity, I will settle for making sure the universe does not tumble completely into entropy before Oberon can restore the balance.”

Aunna gave Dara a shrewd smirk as the woman sat on the bench across the aisle. “Corwin rejected you, vis-à-vis he must be barking.”

“Oh, I assure you the man is most completely cracked,” she replied. “If I wanted to marry crazy, I would court at House Amblerash.”

Aunna leaned back, and considered the Lady of Chaos with a furrowed brow. “Nobody from my end has mentioned anything about it.”

“Yes, well, your family has always been quite adept at missing the trees for the forest.” She crossed her knees, returning Aunna's stare with an expression of curiosity. “How have you been?”

“At peace,” she responded curtly. “You?”

Dara glanced at the pile of armour, and quirked a half-smile. “Learning to juggle.”

“How's that working out for you?”

“I am not yet dead.”

Aunna snorted a laugh in spite of herself. “So why did Oberon send you?”

“He is not involved in this,” she said. “I came on my own.”

“Why don't I believe you?”

“Because that is your nature,” Dara said. “As much as it is mine.”

Aunna raised an eyebrow. After a long beat of silence, the other woman finally continued.

“I did not appreciate being a pawn any more than you, and if you can believe me in nothing else, I hope you will at least believe me in that.” She grimaced wryly, “In case you have not noticed, you were not the only one to stand defiant when the time came.”

“I had better things to do.”

“Clearly.” Dara tilted her head with an almost predatory grin, “How _is_ Prince Martin, by the way?”

Aunna tamped down a flare of righteous anger. “Still in one piece, last I checked.” She leaned forward, resting elbows on knees, and added, “But he's not why you're here.”

“Quite true.” Adjusting her seat, Dara settled into the corner of the bench and, with one arm draped across the back, continued, “You are obviously preparing to go 'do your part'.” She took in the armour again with a pointed glance. “But I wonder how much you know of what has been going on.”

“I know enough.”

“Are you certain about that?” Dara gave her a deadpan stare. “Because what _I_ know makes me want to go into hiding, and not show my face until it is a thousand years gone.”

Despite the Chaosian's blank expression, her words had a sharp edge of genuine fear on them; and for as good as Dara Helgram was at The Game, she still lacked finesse.

Aunna suddenly found herself quite interested in what the other woman had to say. She looked at the pile of armour beside her as she considered her next move carefully, eventually picked up the can of polish, and clapped the lid back on.

“Wanna drink?” she asked, getting to her feet.

“No.” Dara stood up all the same. “But I daresay _you_ will.”

* * *

In the end, Aunna wanted to do much more than drink.

Because however hardened someone may believe themselves to be, nobody wants to hear that the enemy of their enemy doesn't give a rat's ass what the specifics were; they were played, they know they were played, and they plan to exact personal retribution upon the players.

If they found her, they would likely succeed in killing her.

And she _wasn't_ ready to die. Which meant she _was_ sufficiently tempted into taking a cue from her Chaosian counterpart, and disappearing into Shadow.

When Dara left, Aunna saddled Sagr, and set off toward realms unknown-

Only .. she couldn't do it.

Not for some overinflated sense of Duty and Honor, either. She honestly _could not do it_. Every attempt invariably turned her toward Amber; she never got farther than a few Shadows away before fighting her way back to Keene.

And it was the realization that her will was no longer entirely her own, more than anything Dara had said, that ultimately broke her.

* * *

“Where are you?”

Fingers in her hair, and it was a testament to the fact she'd dropped her guard and let him in long ago that he wasn't instantly skewered with the sabre across her lap.

She couldn't say how long she'd been sitting there. The sun had come up, her coffee had gone cold, and the needle on the record was stuck in the last groove: _thipsss, thipsss, thipsss_.

“Keene,” she eventually replied. “I thought you were in Cali.”

“I was. Briefly.” Martin moved away, switched off the turntable, and settled the arm back into its cradle. He looked at the jacket of the album he'd rescued, tilted his head curiously at the black and white image of a boy with a bruised face staring angrily back at him. “You called me.”

She made a noncommittal sound. He set the sleeve on top of the other recently played titles - _Ghost in the Machine, Blind Faith, Houses of the Holy_ \- before leaving the turntable, and hooking a chair around to sit in front of her.

“Think maybe we can..?“

He reached for her weapon, and she reacted immediately. Fingers closing in a vice grip around the hilt, she pulled it out of his reach with an almost bestial snarl.

“Don't.”

Martin gave her a perplexed look, and cautiously withdrew. After a moment, Aunna relaxed, and set the blade aside.

“There's a war on, you know,” she said, as if by afterthought.

“I see.” He slipped out of his jacket, and fished through the pockets, finally producing a pack of smokes and a much-abused silver lighter.

“I have to go.”

“And you fancied a fuck before you did?” Martin chucked his coat aside with one hand as he shook loose a cigarette with the other. He offered it to her. “That _is_ generally the pre-deployment tradition, right?”

Aunna barked a mirthless laugh as she accepted the smoke. “Explains why you got here so fast,” she said. “Learn some new tricks while you were on walkabout?”

“I was in Texorami until an hour ago,” he replied, producing a cigarette of his own and lighting it. She leaned forward to catch the flame, then settled back with a heavy sigh. Martin flipped the lighter shut, adding, “Your message was three days old.”

She frowned, went distant, tried to remember using the phone because _that didn't seem_ …

“Hey.” Martin nudged her shin with his toe. She startled, and looked at him. “Leave the pointy thing alone, savvy?”

She followed his gaze when he redirected it. Her hand had drifted to Feüermede again; was caressing the hilt.

It was a sudden change, when it came. One moment she was a fortress — defenses all in place, strong front presented. The next, her vision swam, and her hand would not stop trembling as she tried - every fiber straining - to pull away. Finally, two choked words (“I can't") and she gave in to the breakdown.

The world spun away in great heaving sobs borne of frustration and fear, and in the midst of it she made her confession: That she'd blatantly ignored a King's Summons nearly a decade ago, and by the action not only invoked Oberon's ire, but that of the House of Chaos he had promised her to. Enemies on both sides of the Front assured that, if she went to war, she was very likely to die.

And _she didn't want to die_. Not for _this_.

Her throat was raw when she finished, eyes burning and head pounding. She was also sitting on the floor, Martin wrapped around her in a soothing embrace. It was comforting, and not unwelcome, but a bit too restrictive for her current headspace. When she smudged at her face with a loose fist however, he relaxed his hold, and she gently shrugged away from him.

Silence fell as the sky changed from afternoon blue to sunset mauve. After a moment, Aunna cast around for the cigarettes. Interpreting her search, Martin handed her the pack and the lighter. She mumbled her thanks, tucked her hair behind her ears before lighting up, took a long drag and blew out rough.

“Better?” he asked.

Aunna shrugged, and deposited the items onto his lap. “By comparison, yes.”

“Mind if I ask you something, then?”

She folded one knee up, and wrapped an arm around it before focusing on him.

“Why go?” He rested back on his hands. “That is, if you're convinced that taking part in this war is going to get you killed, then why do it?”

There was no other answer to give. “Because I have to.”

Martin looked skeptical. “Is this one of those 'Military Things' that I don't understand, because I haven't served?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Is this some ingrained 'Amber Loyalty' I missed out on, because I grew up in Rebma?”

She shrugged. “Not that I'm aware of. But unlikely.”

“Then don't go,” he said simply.

Turning her head away, her eyes fell on her sabre, and she sighed.

“It's not that simple.” She could almost see the air pulsing around it now, mirage-like. “This is how he'll get the last word, Marty,” she said, and faced him again. It was all so clear now. “I _may_ be damned if I do, but I'm _certainly_ damned if I don't.”

He sat up, and transferred the cigarettes from his lap to the nearby table. “So if you didn't call me to talk you out of going, then why did you?”

Aunna chuckled wryly. “What? Your pre-deployment fuck theory isn't holding up?”

When he gave her a flat look in response, she took a drag off her cigarette, softening her posture, but avoiding his gaze.

“I didn't listen,” she finally confessed. Then tapped her temple with two fingers, adding, “It's labyrinthine up here.”

There was only the slightest hesitation before Martin reached over to take the cigarette from her fingers, draw on it, and then stub it out. He stood, and offered his hands.

And they had never been an overly sentimental couple, but when she was on her feet and he was angling her mouth to his, the kiss felt raw, delicate; every inch an opening salvo to something final.

He followed her upstairs, and let her ease him to the bed when they got there. She straddled his thighs, opened his shirt, and laid him out in the golden hues of sunset. She looked at him, fond and covetous in equal measure; catalogued every line of him, every memory of them, and felt herself regain some equilibrium when he flushed predictably under her gaze.

He hardened as her fingers sculpted the dip of his clavicle, the curve of his ribs, the line of his scar, the crest of his hip. Her hands smoothed the flat of his stomach, met at the wisp of hair above the button of his jeans. She watched him watching her brush first one thumb, then both, across the straining fabric below; and when his eyes closed and his head dropped to the mattress with a long, low moan, she chewed her lower lip on a shuttered breath at the coiling sensation in her gut.

Sweat was beading in the hollow of his throat, and at the edges of his hairline. His hands were sliding up her thighs, tugging her shirt free and rucking it up to get beneath, seeking more skin. She pulled the item off and bent forward, lips parting his slowly as his arms folded her close, and his hips began an intermittent roll against her belly — grounding her even as it spun her up, making her ache to the core.

She gradually worked them out of the rest of their clothes, and eventually took him to hand; collecting damp in the cup of her palm and slicking her strokes with it, twisting up and pressing down, pressing in and dragging out of him all the sounds that she adored most. She took them on her tongue like sacrament, and when his fingers dug into her haunches, guided her into a wet grind against his thigh-

“Please,” he murmured; groaned against her mouth. “… sweetheart .. I …”

-she was going to combust. Her lungs felt bruised, her skin too small. She let him move her up over his hips, and she adjusted her grip to take him inside…

And she was gasping down at him, meeting his gaze with half-lidded eyes, and wanting to lock this moment up forever because galaxies were exploding in her chest and he was hot hard fire at every point of contact but he was beautiful, so beautiful, and perfect, and true, and-

And-

And-

And she loved him.

She slowed. She stopped. She stared.

Revelation.

Catharsis.

And he saw it _oh god_ his eyes went so soft and his lashes were damp and he lifted a hand to caress her cheek like he'd been waiting with all of his patience _for so long_ for her to get here and-

“Aunna I-”

She stopped his words with a gentle palm. Her lips trembled: _sshhhh_.

His fingers spasmed along her jaw even as the rest of his body went rigid. He looked pained, his expression glassy, desperate to finish that statement but-

 _Please, don't say it._ Her vision swam with the wordless plea, and she tilted into his touch. _I know. I_ _know_ _. But please don't say it. Not now… _

He blinked, slowly. His chest expanded, hitched, deflated. Beneath her fingers, his mouth twitched in a rueful smile. He gave a small nod, careworn: _Okay_.

Her fingers dragged his lower lip down when she removed them. His hand slid onto her nape, and he rose up on his other elbow to swallow her silent sob.

* * *

Aunna dressed by the light of a full moon. She tied her hair back, and sat on the edge of the bed to pull on her boots. She turned her palm up when Martin lightly gripped her wrist; took in the image of him, disheveled and limned in silver, left arm folded behind his head and scar stretched taught against his ribcage. She curled her fingers with his, pressed her knuckles into his palm.

“Stay?” Her voice was strained; plaintive. “Be here, when…”

His thumb stroked the back of her hand. “I will.”

She stood then, and leaned over to kiss him — warm and open, and laden with all the things she could not say. His fingers were slow to release as she picked up her battered old rucksack, and headed for the door.

She did not look back. She took a shortcut to the mostly-empty barn, spoke softly to Sagr when he greeted her with an anxious snort, and pulled together a few items from the tack room before slipping the bosal over his ears.

She called Tristan.

“I'm ready,” she told him, tonelessly.

He reluctantly held out a hand.


	2. Chapter 2

She was assigned command of the 9th Cavalry, and scheduled for deployment to the Chaos Front.

Cigarette between her fingers, empty pint glass at her elbow, Aunna contemplated this with no small amount of bitterness from a balcony overlooking the moonlit lawn of Kolvir. Through the archway behind her, the Great Hall swirled with light and colour and music, the Court gladhanding the Officers they were sending off to fight.

She'd almost forgotten how much she detested it; how disgustingly universal it was.

“Now _there's_ a face I haven't seen in a while.”

Aunna didn't bother to suppress her wry smile. She dropped her chin, and looked at him sidelong. “Hey, Leo.”

Lieutenant Colonel Westwood, Lord Balfax, assumed a casual lean on the banister at her right, and offered her a fresh pint; clinked his against it when she accepted, and they both took long swallows. Her gaze moved back to the lawn.

“Heard you got married as well as promoted,” she said at length.

He nodded, and brushed an imaginary fleck of something from the lapel of his Vert greens. “I did.”

“Congratulations.” Her attention returned to him, and she sketched a salute with her glass. “Truly.”

His smile was genuine. “Thank you.”

Aunna drank, then shifted to rest a hip against the rail and face him more fully, but cast her gaze through the archway into the Great Hall.

“She got a sister?” She jerked her chin to indicate Tristan, who was laughing at the bar with a small entourage. “Nice girl to help keep that heroic dumbass in line?”

Leo laughed. “Six older brothers, actually,” he said.

Aunna slanted him a look. “Pretty sure we both know _that's_ not an issue-”

“Yeah, no,” Leo cut across her, still chuckling but also pinking at the edges. When he met her gaze again, he added, “He's got a Type, and they're not it.”

Aunna took in the colonel's flop of sandy-blonde hair and finely-sculpted features, the faint flush on his cheeks and the corded muscles of the forearm peeking out from his sleeve, and was mildly amused to realize that apparently she did, too.

But their brief romance was a distant memory, and she was legitimately happy for Leo. So she brushed off his reply with a smirk, and a one-shouldered shrug.

“How's life with the Rowan Vert?” she asked with a grin. “Spelunked any cattle wades lately?”

“Okay that was _one time_ -” Leo laughed.

“March to Chaos ain't started yet,” she interjected, taking a drink.

“-and it technically wasn't a 'cattle wade'. Just smelled like one.” Leo ran a finger along the lip of his glass, looking oddly wistful. “The light show we got at the end was stellar, though.” His expression sobered then, and he continued, “But what you really want to know is 'How deep is the shit we're walking into' and, if I have to be honest, I'll tell you we've definitely been up to our necks a couple times, but haven't drowned yet.”

“What a charming visual,” she said.

“You're the one who brought it up,” he replied blandly. “I assumed you were talking in code.”

“In that case, way to run with it.” Toasting him with the dregs of her beer, she finished it, and set the glass aside; watched the foam slide down to collect at the bottom. There was a small pause, then she resumed with her voice pitched low, “They've assigned me to Captain the 9th Cav.”

“I know.” His words were thick with empathy. “I'm sorry.”

She waved it off. “It's not a big deal. They're not the same unit. I mean-” she amended quickly, holding up a forestalling hand when Leo looked ready to interject, “-yes, _technically_ , their designation means they are. But the members of the 9th Cav I served with before Ghenesh?” _The ones that survived_ , she didn't say aloud; just sighed heavily to minimize the hesitation, and let her hand fall to her side. “They've all moved on, Leo. Or aged out. Or been reassigned. So this 9th Cav, they're not the same unit at all.”

He visibly considered that a moment, head tilted like he was still contemplating an argument. But then he relented with a slight purse of his lips, and asked instead, “Have you been down to meet them yet?”

“Only the NCO's,” she replied. “Kendall and .. Baxter? Seem like good officers; solid service records on both. They gave me a rundown of the roster, mentioned they were expecting a new Specialist-”

It was almost imperceptible, and only really caught her attention because she happened to glance up at just the right moment.

Leo's jaw clenched, bracing.

And wasn't _that_ just the right amount of salt for this wound.

“Well, shit,” she said, flatly.

He looked slightly dumbfounded. “You didn't know?”

“It didn't even occur to me to think 'Specialist' would translate to 'Vert'.” She rolled her head back, and gritted her teeth at the sky, her chuckle bitter when it crawled out of her. “Fuck. Just .. fuck.”

 _I know why_ _I'm_ _being punished_ , she wanted to say. _But who did_ _you_ _piss off?_

A sudden buildup of noise from the archway saved her from needing to say more, however, and she schooled her expression into a less agonized smile when Tristan leaned out.

“Hey, sis.” He looked immediately at Leo. “You ready?”

Leo finished his drink and nodded. Tristan reached out to clap him on the chest, then ducked back inside.

“Let me guess,” Aunna said. “Gonna Rattle the Hill?”

“It's tradition, right?” he asked in return, gathering up their empty glasses, and heading toward the hall. He paused at the archway, looked back, and jerked his head. “You among us, Alumnus?”

She laughed, and called him a punk, and fell in behind him.

Because yeah, she couldn't turn down a good tradition.

* * *

Stone Hill no.13 was almost as old as the military academy it stood near, and tonight it was teaming with all manner of personnel to the point that the entire lawn had been staffed to accommodate. Here the masses projected an energy in complete contrast to the Officer's Ball they'd left behind. Where that had been a stodgy, almost stoic affair, this place was alight with an abandon bordering on hedonistic (if not for the occasional introspective eddie). Aunna was reminded of those LA nights at the Whiskey, at the Troubadour, at Warehouse 66.

Leo bumped her shoulder, and directed her gaze toward a group of 9th Cav; raised the glass that Tristan handed him in salute to them, and leaned down to speak into her ear.

“No pressure,” he said. Then he squeezed her arm, and headed over.

“Guess he's not a 'traitor' for going Ranger over Cav anymore,” she mused when they greeted him as an old friend.

“So he told you,” her brother stated over her other shoulder.

“I'd never have agreed to take on one of your men, Tristan,” she replied flatly, accepting the pint he presented without looking. “Especially him.”

“I know,” he said. “But I hope you understand why I have a vested interest in your desire to command that particular unit.”

“Can't say it wasn't a shock,” she sighed, fishing her cigarettes out of her pocket. “Thought for sure they'd put me in Arden, two-I-C to someone at best.” She shrugged, lit up, and watched Leo get into a laughing / shoving match with one of the unit's NCO's. “But I'm committed to the cause. It's too important not to be.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Tristan tip his chin toward the table. “You should go convince them you're not some stuffed shirt fresh out of Begma OFC,” he prodded, good-naturedly.

She looked at him then, and offered a wan smile before resting her head back on his shoulder. After a moment, he wrapped an arm around her.

“You looked happy,” he said at length. “I held stuff back, and I shouldn't have. Because you looked happy, and I don't think I've seen that since we were kids. I didn't want to take it away from you.”

She considered that a moment. Then, “You weren't wrong.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “Life was .. good. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to get back there.”

His arm stiffened a little, and she felt him look at her. She ducked out of his hold before he could respond though, and caught Leo's attention with a small wave.

“Go on,” she said, walking backward a few strides and grinning. “Plenty of available bodies to knock boots with. Best get to revelin', Specialist.”

His worried expression creased with incredulity, and he flipped her a rude gesture, but he was laughing behind his pint when he turned to head the opposite direction.

* * *

They met up again later on the back lawn, where Tristan was slouched low on an L-shaped bench, his nape against the backrest and his legs extended, crossed at the ankles. His jacket was open, and he had a half-empty pint resting on his stomach, fingers laced around it. She slid onto the bench next to him, tucked one leg under herself and folded the other knee over; ruffled his hair when she draped an arm behind them.

“You holding up ok?” she teased.

He didn't respond. His attention was distant, and she followed his gaze to the stage that had been erected at the far end of the property, where the foothill that gave the pub its name created a natural amphitheatre. A troupe of performers - the Beacon Players, their banner proclaimed - had amassed an impressive crowd of dancers and lookers-on, and the whole lot appeared to be feasting on that perfect synergy that exists between entertainment and the entertained. Her heart clenched, just a stutter-beat, when she opened her mouth to say something to Martin about it, and turned to see her brother beside her instead.

She deflated a bit. He tucked his chin, and gave a small sigh.

“I really am sorry, Aunna,” he said. “I know how badly you wanted out.”

“Oh, no,” she said, making to get up. “ _Fuck_ maudlin. We're not Corwin. None of this 'drunk, morbid, and bitter' bullshit, savvy?”

His eyes flicked up at her, and he quirked a smile. “Yeah, alright.” He sat up straight, downed his beer, and motioned a passing waitress for another. The girl exchanged glances with Aunna, who confirmed one for herself as well.

“You were right,” she said, settling back against the bench again. “They're a good group. Not a brass turd among'm.”

Tristan burst out laughing. “Sweet goddess I haven't heard — who was it used to say that? Tactics professor, had a face like a pressed ham-”

“Rotherford,” she supplied, remembering. “Corporal Kineas Rotherford, HMC.”

“Rotherford,” he agreed, his laugh tempering to a chuckle. “Pretty sure he retired to Murn. Raised prizewinning hens until he was two-hundred and two or something.”

“Good for him,” Aunna nodded brusquely, then smiled at the waitress as she returned with their drinks. “Live your dream.”

Tristan hummed distractedly, watching the young woman leave with the mild interest of the pleasantly tipsy, and Aunna was about to make a suggestive nudge when he said,

“So, you wanna tell me about him yet?”

She fixed him with a perplexed stare; first one eyebrow climbing, then both pinching in. He leaned back into the L of the bench, and returned her gaze with supreme nonchalance.

“Or her,” he added, shrugging, bending a knee up to rest on the seat between them. “No judgment here.”

Beverage capped by one hand, he spread his arms out in a T across the benchbacks, completely open. She snorted, smirked, and looked to the stage, raising her pint to her lips.

“What'd I say about getting maudlin?”

He balked at that, his carefree, ribbing expression folding into something vaguely concerned.

“Aunna,” he intoned, his voice pitched low, like a secret. “What are you not telling me?”

She sighed, propping her head up on her fist to look at him as she did. Considered how much to say, and how to say it.

“I think Oberon's teaching me a lesson,” she decided. “He wasn't exactly happy when I resigned my commission, you know.”

“Still received a Commendation, though,” he replied with a small, pointing gesture. “A shiny bronze one, about yea big, with a point at one end. Has a name and everything.”

A Commendation that, in light of recent developments, seemed anything but altruistic. But she didn't want to get into that now, so,

“I remember,” she nodded with a half grin. “I was there.”

He seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate, but when she didn't, he made his own observation.

“You…” He chewed the inside of his lip a moment, then started again. “What happened all those years ago, that was _not_ your fault. It was tragic, but you were never to blame for surviving it. So maybe…” He hesitated, then tilted his head and gave her a hopeful expression. “Maybe this isn't what you think it is. Maybe it's his heavy-handed way of offering you closure.”

And it really was a pleasant fiction, when she thought about it. Enough that she was able to pull up an _almost_ genuine smile.

But when this was over - if she still could? - she determined she would tell Tristan the truth.

Because he was her brother. And that should've meant more, all along.

* * *

Their army was huge, and it moved through Shadow in fits and bursts. Yet they met surprisingly little opposition en route, even beyond the Central Plane. So when reports came in that their enemy appeared to be falling back to fortify in the Courts, she was unsurprised. Of course they'd want to bring the battle to them. Many of these soldiers weren't physically capable of handling the wildly-shifting environment, and would be forced to fight from an outlying distance.

There were still skirmishes, though. The closer they got to the Courts, the more they encountered pockets of resistance amid the husks of civilization. Most often these were cleaned out by the advance guard - her brother and the other Rowan Vert, or the Scarlet Acolytes from Sage Hall - but occasionally some unit or other would be flanked, and lose a few dozen souls before persevering. Survivors perfected the quick burial, and mourned on the march.

Settling back into a command role was hardly difficult. When Aunna had resigned her commission in Amber, she'd done so as a First Lieutenant, XO to Captain Ellsworth Phipps, HMC (posthumously). She was no stranger to deciphering the dynamics that made a unit run smoothest, the words that rallied or stilled them most effectively. It was only a matter of observation, really.

Still, she didn't quite connect with them on the level Leo did, and part of her appreciated the efforts he made to bridge that divide — he'd lob her an offhand topic from his seat by the fire, for example, or drag her into a story with some 'misremembered' fact about a previous tour they'd shared. But as glad as she was to have him as her Second, she also felt guilty for keeping him from his Vert brothers, so to compensate she sent him to visit whenever they made camp in the same Shadow, and allowed him to goad her into another fireside chat when they didn't.

She rarely slept. The proximity to so much Chaos strung her nerves drum-tight and, with her preferred distraction safely stowed infinite Shadows away, she found it difficult to let down enough for actual shuteye. It was only after she bit down on a satisfied whimper one night-

(her fingers were not his because the callous points were too different, but if she thought about him there then she remembered she arched oh god he was burned into her and her body re.. _mem.._ bered)

-then rode Sagr out to the 9th Cav picket for breakfast, that she learned if she sprawled out on the horse's back, and let her body assume a kind of meditative suspension - let her senses drop down, and tune into his - she could effectively doze while he grazed _and_ be aware at the same time. And that was a brilliant, if somewhat unnerving, discovery.

Leo presented her with a bulging pouch of loose tobacco on what he decided was her birthday, then wished her luck in finding a way to smoke it. Tristan later told her that he'd won its contents, from multiple sources, through several rounds of some bizarre game called 'Downriver', which the Vert had created using a random card deck they'd discovered in an abandoned village along the Black Road.

(She’d watched them play it, once.

“Imagine if someone explained poker to a toddler,” she’d said, when Tristan had offered to deal her in, “fed them a mountain of sugar, and then sent them off with an Uno deck to teach it to the village idiots.”

And they hadn't argued, exactly. Rather the pair exchanged puzzled looks, then shrugged simultaneously, and asked what 'Uno' was.)

A few weeks later, on what would have passed for Leo's birthday if time had any meaning, Tristan produced a bottle of rye whiskey from Willow Trace, and she finally learned the story of how they'd met Margorie Mills-

“-but Margie just spun around and-” her brother mimed a quick jab to the face “ _-bap_! That jackass went _down_ _._ And this one,” he hooked a thumb at Leo, “said 'I'm gonna marry that woman'. Like it was a fucking _prophecy_.”

“It was the way she just .. laid him out,” Leo gesticulated adoringly, and Aunna was amused to think that maybe he had a Type, too. But then,

“Wasn't knocking it,” Tristan stated into his glass, resting back on one elbow, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Bit envious, honestly.”

And it was oddly validating, to hear her younger brother - who'd always seemed to put service above self - voice a craving for something domestic. She wondered if, like her, this was a recent development, or if it were something that'd been there all along; felt a twinge of regret that she didn't immediately know the answer, then a bit of sorrow when she suspected the latter was most likely.

She smiled, albeit willowy, and said, “Not to spew platitudes, T. But they're out there. They'll find you.”

Tristan snorted. “I thought we declared a moratorium on maudlin?”

But he was also looking at her with a contemplative expression, and when he tilted his head slowly in invitation, she relented. Because she _wanted_ to share this with him — _could_ , with the right editing, and not give too much away. Shadow was infinite, after all. They'd never find the bigger secret unless he wanted to be found. So,

“His name was Martin,” she said. “And I think I loved him.”

* * *

She'd recall that conversation, four weeks later, when her world was on fire.

* * *

“If I'd remembered how much _waiting_ there'd be, I'd have packed more to read.”

Aunna turned in her saddle, and shot Leo a baffled expression. “You finished _Stranger in a Strange Land_ already? Didn't Tristan lend that to you, like, two days ago?”

“Sometimes I wonder about that boy,” he responded in an old, familiar way. “His taste in literature is…” The statement trailed off, with a head shake and a smile.

“Our father chews through pulp fictions like the genre is having a fire sale — _never_ tell him I told you that, by the way,” she hastened to add when Leo choked on a suppressed laugh. “And to be fair, _I_ gave Tristan that book because I _hated_ it, so of course he _loves_ it, the contrary little shit.”

They rode quietly for a few dozen strides, taking in the sunset-shrouded woods on their right, and the downward-sloping grassland to their left; watched the slow revelation of tall buildings on the horizon before them, and listened to the beat of many hooves trudging along behind.

“You still read it though, right?” Her tone was light, quick; she shot him a sideways grin. He shrugged one shoulder, smirked, but did not comment further.

Silence again. Aunna idly stroked Sagr's neck, and kicked her feet out of the stirrups to stretch her legs.

“What about you?” Leo asked.

She was talking almost before he finished. “I didn't pack _nearly_ enough booze for this nonsense.”

He chuckled. “Would you be offended if I said that wasn't the response I was expecting?”

“Why?” She shrugged. “You know me better than most, Leo; but by my calculation, your knowledge is still at _least_ fifty years out of date. Offense would be stupid.” Her gaze drifted past him, toward the belt of trees. After a pause, she confided, “You have no idea how difficult it's been for me not to just reach out and grab what I want, when I want it.” Her words took on a chiding tone, her gaze cast down but inward, “Fuck, I was spoiled by the Pattern. Conjuring what I needed was simple, a harmless cheat.” She snorted wryly and looked forward. “Now I'm so used to it, it's my first impulse anymore.”

Martin used to give her so much shit over it, too. She could hear his voice in her ear, a root memory: _Really, A? Couldn't just put a nickel in?_ And she'd smile and say something like: _Spare me your lectures, pup. When you approach the century mark,_ _then_ _we'll debate the merits of circumnavigation_. And he'd hold onto that slight on his relative youth until they were somewhere alone, and he could remind her why ages meant nothing compared to years lived, and a willingness to explore-

She shook herself out with a few rapid blinks, just in time to catch Leo say,

“-istan spends so little time outside the Golden Circle, I guess I never considered that side of it before.”

It was her turn to shrug. “It's an adjustment. But there are worse DT's to undertake, I suppose.”

After a moment to interpret, he conceded the point with a slight tilt of his head. She pulled her feet back up into the stirrups as they approached a berm, signaling those behind her to halt. She reached into the pouch at her hip, and produced Tristan's card.

“Flash,” she said when he answered.

He nodded to someone out of view. From over the ridge, there sounded a low rumble. _Thunder._

“See you soon,” he said.

She released the call, and motioned the unit forward.

* * *

Dara had once tried to explain the Courts to her, not long after they'd met. Following many hours of what ultimately sounded like nonsensical whimsey and psychotropic terror, Aunna had concluded that it probably resembled a hyperrealistic composite of MC Escher and Salvador Dali, as told by Lewis Carroll, and edited by HP Lovecraft.

She was _partly_ right.

She'd needed more drugs.

The landscape that stretched out before her undulated like pulled taffy in places; formed cracked and fractured spears like spun sugar in others. Arches and spires soared and spiralled amid suspended lakes and mobius nebulas. The sky was fascetted into prismatic shards, roiling starscapes, and burning atmospheres.

The whole thing made her body want to liquify. Literally.

She resisted the urge, and turned Sagr away.

Leo, astride his horse a short distance off, nodded to her with a brisk motion as she approached. “Captain.”

“How's the weather, Westwood?” she asked.

He fell in beside her as she passed. The pair walked toward the main body of their unit.

“Sun is up,” he replied, rote. “Sky is blue.”

She nodded. “Let's turn 'em out, then.”

Leo made a quick salute, then peeled off toward the NCO's. Aunna opened up to the pressure that had been building at the base of her skull.

“They're coming,” Tristan said. The world around him was a miasma of billowing aquamarine, and he looked to be encased in an opaque shell. He was running. “On your ten. We're headed to the northwest bank. We'll cover you.”

“Understood,” she replied. “Good hunting.”

He met her gaze briefly. “Good hunting, sis.”

The call ended. Aunna nodded to Leo, who began deploying orders.

* * *

Honestly, she despised combat.

Because when it came down to it, she was more committed to self defense and preservation than to battlefield strategy and tactics.

She was good at fighting, though. Had been doing it, in some manner or other, the majority of her life. Had even, once upon a time, thought it an interesting way to curtail boredom.

But _now_ \- as she faced off with a fresh wave of what looked like lizard gorillas riding giant scorpion sharks - she understood that the time she'd spent working through the ranks of various Shadow militaries, or mastering an obscure but useful combat form, had _actually_ been fulfilling a subtle Compulsion to keep her skills honed.

Fighting was simple.

Also: Feüermede made creatures of Chaos immolate.

So maybe Tristan had been on to something, after all.

* * *

There was no sun, and therefore no way to mark time. It felt like they'd been at it for hours, though.

Leo, when she spotted him, was recognizable only by the shape of his body armour: he and his big bay mare were a single unit of soot and ash, pirouetting to cut down an enemy, and then dart off to intercept another. Twice more Tristan called her - first from galloping horseback amid a riot of lashing branches, second lying supine against an obsidian ground, both times looking more brutalized and determined, eyes wide and wild - to alert her of some shift in the tide of battle.

“But what about Oberon?” she asked in that third contact, spinning Sagr and sending him into a sideways leap to avoid the creature that suddenly tunneled up in front of them. “How will we know if-”

The light came first: a phosphorescent flash so violent, it obliterated shadows. Aunna flung up an arm, shielding her eyes. Her brother's image vanished, and the burrowing creature she'd been evading scurried in the opposite direction.

Then the ground lurched.

_Oh. Fuck._

Aunna set her horse to run, bending low over his neck and urging him to speed. Because now there was a column of fire blooming behind her, and the air was beginning to scald, and _fuck fuck shitting fuck_ -

The shock wave, when it hit, burst her eardrums with a mighty _PFOOOM_. Sagr was pinwheeled through the air, and Aunna was first whipped back, then slammed to the ground.

She rolled a dozen times before sprawling to a halt, her left arm tucked grotesquely beneath her. For several moments she lay prone, unmoving; then she choked a bloody gasp, and turned onto her side. Eventually she forced herself to her knees - left arm hanging limp, right hand tugging desperately at the buckles of her dented breastplate - and stared through the fog of concussion at the smouldering crater, the dissipating fire cloud, now several hundred yards behind her.

She worked the plate loose enough to get an actual breath; felt her head clear a little at the intake, and worked her jaw to counter the ringing in her ears. The fight had been carried pretty far afield by the blast radius, and her vision was swerving in triplicate, so it took her a moment to realize the silhouette she was watching was actually someone stalking out of the smoke toward her. His cape billowed, his sword was drawn, and his loping gait was distantly familiar-

“Pity,” said a voice behind her. “You would have made an exceptional Hellmaiden.”

Even half deaf, the cadence of those words made the speaker's identity immediate. She reeled around, reaching for a weapon that was not there with an arm that would not function. Her other hand came up on reflex, a warding gesture. _Wait!_

And then there was nothing but pain. It seared through her from the chest out, liquid fire erupting in her veins and shooting out to all points of contact, tearing from her a cry of unparalleled agony. Time was instantly warped by a white world of shock; sound was a ringing void, clanging dully.

Her chin dropped down, casting her eyes upon the hilt of her own blade protruding from her breast. She spat a rueful laugh at the absurdity of it, coughed spume across the hilt in the process. Her functioning hand slowly reached for it, tried to wipe it off, cautiously wrapped around it, made an aborted attempt to draw it out…

Her vision darkened, pinholing in from the edges until only a single bright speck of light remained. She slumped, went instantly numb, but did not fall for the prop of her blade stabbing into the ground behind her.

“Curse you, Borel Hendrake,” she grumbled. “I hope you burn, you sanctimonious fuck.”

Eventually, the clanging stopped.

Some time after, something touched the back of her head.

For a moment Aunna braced for a mercy killing; but then she realized the touch was soft and wet, accompanied by the smell of warm horseflesh, and an eyeful of singed golden hair.

Sagr lipped his rider's ear, and nickered plaintively.

Her hand reached up to stroke the forelock from his eyes.

The gesture fell short. Consciousness lost.

* * *

The end, however, was not swift.

Try as it might, her Shapeshifter body could not heal the damage done. Because now she _knew_ that Feüermede was a weapon akin to Greyswandir and Werewindle and Aardbrekker — a glancing blow from it would take years to mend, whereas a killing one had never been recovered, and she was certain her spurned betrothed knew where the heart was.

So life lingered. She was a punt tied to the bank of a swiftly-moving stream: buffeted by waves and current, rope alternately stretched taught and yielding, longing but incapable of moving on.

As she wavered, she sensed something in the area had changed. She reached for it. Willed herself to identify it. Discovered the absence of battlefield noise, and felt a strange peace. If nothing else, it seemed the fight was over.

Sometime later she became aware of Sagr leaving, of someone kneeling beside her, of careful fingers on her pulse-point. Mustering what strength she had, Aunna made herself speak.

“Did we win?”

Leo lowered his hand. “Technically.”

Within her, something let go at that, and she twitched a smile but did not move otherwise. She felt hollow, scooped clean. She was a field of willow herb gone to seed, waiting for a strong breeze to carry her away.

Only…

She opened her eyes and turned them to him. “The others?”

“Save your strength,” he deflected. “MedCorps on the way.”

She fell silent, slid her tongue across her bloodied lips and let her eyes close again; felt Leo tilt until his forehead came to rest against her temple, and he said something encouraging, or soothing, into her ear. She didn't hear it.

Martin was waiting for her in Keene; she knew it to her core, because that's where she'd left him; she'd asked him to stay and he-

“If anybody's gonna put up with me, he's it,” she murmured.

-because she hadn't let him say it, and he'd let her stop him from saying it _why had she stopped him from saying it?_

“Hey, Leo.” She suddenly spoke with a luminous clarity, as if resuming a conversation they'd been having for hours. “You and Margie better make lotsa sprogs, savvy?”

And she smiled when he laughed wetly against her cheek.

And then darkness folded in.

**Author's Note:**

> When I first wrote this piece (in 1994, and that is no exaggeration), it was solely to sever my connection to an RPG persona I'd been portraying for a few years: Ariaunna, daughter of Julian, Duchess of Kolvir, titles ad nauseam &c.
> 
> As much as I loved playing Aunna, part of me recognized my immersion into the character was bordering on unhealthy when I let it affect my relationships with others, both in- and out-of-group. In hindsight, I can say this was partly the fault of a GM boyfriend who delighted in gaslighting me into blurring the lines between fiction and reality on a regular basis; but I was hardly self-aware enough at the time to recognize that fact, and thus the 'nuclear option' that was _Just Like Mercury_ (this piece's original title) was born.
> 
> It broke my heart to do it, but the me of today is eternally grateful that I did.
> 
> Years later, when I took up the mantle of GM and began running my own campaign, I allowed myself to incorporate Aunna into the lore of my 'verse, and created her brother (Tristan) as a Pet!NPC instead. Through fleshing out history and threading a coherent storyline, _Just Another Future Song_ was penned - a mere skeleton of what's on offer today, for the record, and including none of the series' shorts - and the intro of _The Distance to Here_ was submitted to canon.
> 
> Unfortunately, I discovered I didn't care for running games as much as I did composing the tales behind them, and after several aborted attempts at managing an interactive narrative, I just .. gave up.
> 
> (and I cannot apologize enough to those who were effected - I know you know who you are)
> 
> Time passed, and life happened, and as it did the characters of my past wove small stories in the back of my mind. I found myself thinking of them sometimes as old friends: moments of "I wonder what so-and-so is up to" which would bloom into slice-of-life shorts that I'd tuck away with a smile. It was fun, mentally scrapbooking their continued 'existence'.
> 
> Then COVID19 came, and I found myself with an abundance of alone time, but only so much Netflix and Stucky fic to fill it with.
> 
> I began to write again.
> 
> Which is how we find ourselves here, today: Headed toward 200,000 words from a baseline of just over 25k, and the completion of a prelude I've been half-consciously distilling for a very long time.
> 
> Backfilling a narrative is never easy. There's a lot of work that goes into shoring up a foundation without damaging the existing architecture, and I'm pleased to see that - in the grand scheme - I've done pretty well. Reworking the first chapter of this story was the only casualty of the past eleven months, and I will bear that burden with a lightness of being bordering on grace. Because I know now that I've stayed true to my vision for these characters, even 25 years later.
> 
> I couldn't be more satisfied, and as the story continues to progress, I hope you will be, too.
> 
> Onward into 2021!
> 
> ~ j
> 
> Kudos are love :) Comments are moderated (for spam, not content), but always welcome. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ten-Thousand Miles in the Mouth of a Graveyard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28708602) by [jld_az](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az)




End file.
